Natalie Sharp
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sunday 14
They can inter me
in vinyl siding and popcorn ceiling and
broken oak doors. There is no wicked familiar scent
of white citrus when I flicker
into a room anymore, no beauty
at the quick of my calamine-colored nail
beds—not since I’ve been sitting in the back,
dutifully ignored.
Luane Eaker jumps like the devil
blew in her ear when I ask
if I can turn the lights on back here.
The speaker is already ascending
the platform in his ill-fitting polyester suit.
I didn’t cry during the prayer today.
Luane barely stutters yes, is upset
I interrupted her God time with
my pesky need to see.
I am shin deep
in Shun City, the balls of my feet
constantly aflame from tiptoeing
around the bastions of the conditionally saved.
If we believed in
Hell, I guess it would be practice.
Jehovah does not temper his justice with mercy.
They both exist
in perfect measure, so there is no need for mercy
to overcome justice.
I am too cozy
in the swaddling clothes
of my imminent death at Armageddon.
My mother plans to live
forever, tells me in unadorned talk
she will always choose loyalty to God over me,
Make sure of the more important things.
I cross three bridges and a railroad
on the forty-five minute drive home.
I moved us to this Hall
when I was fifteen so my mom could
finally make some spiritual advancement.
It seems that she has.
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Natalie Sharp is a native of Savannah, Georgia and a graduate of Georgia College & State University. Natalie's work has previously appeared in The Peacock's Feet and is forthcoming in Prick of the Spindle. Her current interests include the poetics of revolution, critical studies in hip-hop literature and culture, and copious amounts of Waffle House.